


A Falling Star

by LightningStruckIce



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Girl Regulus, Marauders' Era, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 01:06:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8267083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightningStruckIce/pseuds/LightningStruckIce
Summary: Asterope Black had never been who she really was, and the time had come to be true.





	

_Full of corruption_   
_Illusion of innocence_   
_A beautiful fool_

It was a strange thought; that everything in her life, every single choice she had ever made and every choice others had made for her, had led her to be who she was in this exact moment. And where she was.

It was cold and damp in the shadowy cave where the Dark Lord had secreted away a shard of his tarnished soul. She could see now that which she had been blind to for so long, what true cowardice looked like, a twisted man who would kill other people just to cheat death. Tom Riddle was a coward and he had to lose in this war of his own making.

Blood was unimportant. She had taken far too long to realise that, to notice that the blood she spilled with every curse was just as red and just as precious as that which flowed through her own veins. And she was as pure-blooded a witch as one could be; she was the perfect princess her parents could be proud of.

Pride that they once had for Sirius, the perfect son they lost control of. The one who realised in time that birth did not determine who you are; blood does not make you better.

Oh, how she envied him that. He had no mark on his forearm that burned his very soul. He had friends that loved him for who he was, and not simply because of his last name.

He hadn’t come. She had sent him an owl with instructions for a meeting and waited on a bench in muggle London for hours hoping he would show up and she could tell him what she was going to do. Or that Order members would appear out of nowhere and her plans would be ruined.

But he never showed. Quite right too, her older brother was smart enough not to walk into what could quite obviously be a trap. She had left a note in his room instead, maybe one day when their parents were dead or in Azkaban he’d go back there and find it. Maybe someone would be proud of her for something she could take pride in.

She was so scared now, and the thirst was a fire in her throat that wasn’t going out. What she wouldn’t do for a good old muggle water bottle right now. Not a single spell she could think of had helped, and she had sent Kreacher away.

She didn’t want to die, she could have made the loyal house elf take her too, but she was a coward. She couldn’t face the Dark Lord and no one ever survives running from the Death Eaters. At least this death would be a quick one. She was a Noble and Ancient Black, but she was only eighteen, and she wasn’t noble, she wasn’t a heroine and she wasn’t a Gryffindor.

She was a small, sad, average teenage girl who hid behind the façade of the perfect Slytherin socialite. Nothing she ever had was real.

She was beautiful; since she was twelve that had been a carefully crafted front, potions to tame her wild black curls into perfect ringlets, to smooth her complexion, soften her piercing grey eyes, whiten her teeth and minimise her appetite. Expensive dresses and etiquette lessons for every occasion. She’s had suitors, by the dozen, but the choice of her husband wasn’t ever going to be hers. She loved the one she could never have.

She was brilliant; her primary purpose in the Dark Lord’s inner circle was to research Dark Magic. She could have easily gained Outstandings in five of her eight NEWTS, but pureblood ladies are not overly educated, so a few thrown questions gave her three Os, three Es and two As.

She was rich, without a doubt. There was enough money in her family’s vault to get her through all of the six years of the degree of healing she wanted to study so that she could find the cure for lycanthropy, she could buy herself the latest racing broom and a two bedroom apartment in central London without even making a noticeable dent. She knew she sounded like the horrible prat she was when she said that none of that mattered, that she wishes she had a lot less gold in her life. There was an old muggle adage “money can’t buy happiness”, and she knows it well. She would never be a Healer, play Quidditch again, nor have her own apartment; she would have been married in two months and having a child within the next two years. With a man she could never love. Her engagement ring was an elegant silver band inlaid with diamonds and peridot, a family heirloom. She had left it on her bedside table.

She was popular; everyone at Hogwarts had known her name, from the revulsion shown by the Gryffindor seventh years to the Slytherin third years who wished they could be her. She could ask a fourth year Ravenclaw for a quill and they’d fall over in their urgency to get it. A Hufflepuff in her year wouldn’t care if she forgot their name if it meant that she was talking to them. She was in the Slug Club, she had sixteen separate offers of a date to the ball in seventh year and party invites almost every day of the week. She had a smile for everyone. There were three pureblood girls she was never seen without, and she was their queen. But she was going to die alone.

Everyone dies alone, to some extent. We are born alone and we die alone and she had lived alone. Sirius had told her once about a muggle politician who claimed to be able to count the hugs he had received from his mother on one hand, and she found herself similarly able. When she was eleven at Kings Cross Station, and her engagement party were the only two that sprung to mind. If she had ever had children she would have loved them far more than pureblood propriety would allow. They would have lived their lives with so much love.  
In her entire life she had four real friends, and one of them was her family’s house elf. The other three held no love for her now. She would die more alone than most and no one she loves cared enough to listen to her goodbye.

The thirst was painful now; her painted lips cracking as she decided it was time. The fire was torture and she was weary. Cradling the large shell in her hand she dragged herself the last few feet towards the misty water, slumping across the slippery rock. The lake itself was crystal clear and she could see the faces in it.

This would be worth it. Light would win, the world would go on free of expectations and Asterope Melania Black would be remembered as more than a follower of the Dark.

The shell broke the surface of the water and a slimy hand shot out, gripping her wrist tightly. She didn’t draw her wand and conjure fire, or pull out the enchanted silver dagger strapped to her leg. She didn’t struggle as the tangle of dead arms pulled her until she fell into the frigid waters.

Her hair floated wildly around her face as she sank deeper and the fire in her throat was replaced by a burn in her lungs.

She was completely alone as she fell into the darkness.

 

 


End file.
